Thursday's Child (19 page)

The bus, borne along by a cloud of dust, rattled into the centre square of the town and drew up by a large bus shelter. We descended, while the driver removed his turban and used the end of it to wipe the sweat from his face.

‘It is very quiet,' said Ajit, looking round the almost-deserted square. Then he spotted a Thanedar and six policemen standing near. ‘Arree, trouble,' he exclaimed. ‘See the rifles.'

I looked apprehensively to where he pointed. It was true. All the police were armed with rifles.

‘Inspector Sahib,' said Ajit to that dignitary, who had just finished telling the cringing driver of our bus that he was late. ‘Has there been some disturbance in the city?'

The Inspector flicked the dust off the brass badge pinned on the pocket of his shirt. When the words ‘Shahpur Bus Company' were again legible, he twiddled his moustache ends, stuck out his chest to show his importance, and examined earnestly the top of the only tree in the square. ‘A little trouble, I believe,' he said in sing-song English. ‘But I am not one to spread rumours. Rumours are the prerogative of Hindus and Muslims.'

Ajit's lips tightened. I looked at the Inspector with interest. He was the first Anglo-Indian I had seen. I hated him on sight. His rudeness was unpardonable.

‘What has happened?' asked Ajit patiently.

‘A Muslim tongawallah was beaten up on the Pandipura road last night. The Muslims say it was done by Hindus. They are quite capable of it.'

‘That is not sufficient to cause the police to be armed.'

The Inspector transferred his interest from the tree top momentarily to me and then examined his patent-leather shoes.

‘A Sikh taxi driver's house was set on fire and Muslims were seen running away from it. The house was gutted. The police are looking for the culprits now.'

‘I see,' said Ajit, and propelled me across the square towards the main bazaar.

‘We will keep well inside the Hindu bazaars,' he said. ‘A riot can start so quickly. It may be that the raid on the Sikh's house was retaliation for the beating up of the tongawallah, and the police are being careful to see that the Sikhs don't start any more trouble.'

I nodded. I had heard in England and on the boat coming over of the horrors of the partition riots, and for the first
time in my life I was glad to see an armed policeman.

The vegetable bazaar seemed to be functioning normally. It was packed with people, among whom unattended cows and goats nosed their way. Along the pavement sat village women dressed like Kamala. They had round baskets of vegetables set in front of them and they shouted hopefully to likely customers. Each woman had a small, heavy stick by her side, with which she hit the wandering cows if they tried to steal from her basket; she had also a pair of scales which she held up before the purchaser, manipulating them with skilful fingers so as to give light weight to the unsuspecting. Almost all the women had heart-shaped faces and at least one in every three would have been considered a beauty in England. I wondered why Ajit had bothered to bring a wife from England when such beauties were scattered everywhere.

In the bazaar itself, the police were armed only with lathis, and I watched them idly while Ajit bargained. It was apparent that the people feared them. Women lifted their baskets up and retreated a little as they ambled past. There was none of the easy aplomb of an English policeman on his beat. No one spoke to them.

The vegetable women made jokes about my fair hair, and Ajit said ruefully that I had caused a price boom in the market. When bargaining for fruit with a man who had a small shop facing the market, the man said flatly that for someone who had an English wife Ajit drove too hard a bargain.

At last we were finished, and I had received my first lesson in shopping in a market where there was no fixed price for any product. I wondered if I would ever gain enough patience to bargain for every vegetable I bought. Ajit assured me that I should eventually regard it as an amusing game of skill.

We were fortunate in catching a bus immediately we arrived at the square, but by the time we reached the end of the bus route it was dark.

‘I forgot to bring a torch,' said Ajit, annoyance in his voice.

A voice from the neem tree which marked the end of the route said: ‘Sahib.'

I jumped with fright.

Babu emerged from the shadows. He had brought the torch.

‘How thoughtful of him,' I said to Ajit.

‘He probably wanted to visit someone down here and sought for an excuse to leave the house,' said Ajit sourly. The bazaar had frayed his temper.

Babu took the shopping bags and Ajit the torch.

We came to a tiny restaurant – no more than a thatched roof supported on poles, with a couple of old iron chairs set under it and the owner's cooking utensils and other small belongings stacked in a corner which had been made by draping sacking from the roof.

Ajit stopped to buy a pan to chew. The panwallah carefully wrapped the tobacco, lime and spices into a green leaf, at the same time chatting to Ajit who was evidently a regular customer. Ajit asked him to make up a very small pan for me, which I took and trustfully put into my mouth, only to spit it out again with a fine disregard for good manners.

‘It was so bitter,' I moaned, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief.

The panwallah grinned, and Babu looked regretful at such waste.

The panwallah's wife was squatting before the fire, slapping dough into rounds between her hands, preparatory to cooking it on an iron plate. She said something to her husband.

The man looked worried and spoke rapidly to Ajit, while Ajit chewed his pan and nodded now and then.

‘What did he say?' I asked curiously.

‘He warned me that a dacoit leader was believed to have come from Kathiawar to the Criminal Tribe village near our house. He said I should be careful that you are not kidnapped.'

‘Kidnapped?' I laughed. ‘Surely not in these days.'

‘Robbery is more likely. This dacoit, Vallabhai, must have come so near to a big town for a special reason. He must know of some travellers passing through or an
isolated wealthy house to rob. You must keep the doors locked while I am away, however, and I will tell Chowkidar that he must stay near the flats.'

It sounded like an excerpt from a comic opera, and I could not feel frightened about it; but I promised to keep the doors bolted.

Babu had, of course, heard the warning, and he said mournfully: ‘Sahib, tell Memsahib to put away her silver ornaments, not leave them on a shelf. Silver will bring Vallabhai to our dwelling like a vulture to a dead camel.'

Ajit translated. I was amused.

‘I am not going to bury our pretty things when the flat badly needs something to make it look more pleasant.' I glanced at Babu. ‘Babu is quick to notice. I have only had time today just to unpack – never mind arrange the silver. There is nothing very valuable, anyway.'

Ajit said to Babu that what we had was of little value, and Vallabhai would never know what our house contained.

Babu sulked.

That night while we slept Babu packed his creaky tin trunk with his few clothes, his sacred picture of the Lord Krishna, a tin of cooking fat, a tin of tea, most of our precious wheat ration, and seven rupees and five annas of the housekeeping money. Some time in the early morning he let himself out of the back door, and, with his trunk balanced on his head, he loped away back to his village. Either my mania about insects or fear of Vallabhai or Ajit's complaints about bad washing of the veranda or, perhaps, just a desire to see his mother, had proved too much for him, and away he went, never to be seen by us again.

Nulini had visited Bimla Chand Rana on the same day on which Mrs Singh gave Ajit the three saris for me. When she returned home she left Bimla seated on a cushion under a
mango tree in her father's courtyard stabbing murderously at a piece of embroidery. Bimla's face was contorted with rage. So, she thought, Ajit has married an English woman, a dirty, casteless English woman. She cursed him with curses that scandalised her long-suffering and bewildered Ayah.

‘Do not use such words,' said Ayah. ‘They are unbecoming to Rana Sahib's daughter.'

‘I know what is becoming,' screamed Bimla, her high Punjabi temper in full vent, and she shoved her needle in and out of the cloth as if it was Ajit she was impaling. ‘Go away!'

Ayah had no inkling of what had caused her charge's outburst, and she went and sat a few yards away while she thought about it.

‘I, Bimla Chand Rana,' muttered Bimla, as she savagely bit her embroidery silk at the end of a line of cross stitch, ‘the handsomest woman in the district, to be bypassed by that pudding head of an Ajit in favour of a vulgar Western female!'

She threw her embroidery at a squirrel, who scuttled up the tree in fright, and sat and sulked. She did not wish to betray Nulini, so she did not go to her father, feeling sure that Ram Singh would be communicating with Kasher Chand Rana about the marriage; but the day came when her Ayah said that Ajit was leaving for Shahpur, and still she had heard nothing from her father. Finally, she could endure the suspense no longer, so one morning she put on her best veil and a new shirt and strode to her father's room, Ayah fluttering after her and longing to know what was amiss.

Swallowing hard, she knocked and entered. Her father was alone, working on his private account book. Taking an old servant's privilege, Ayah slipped into the room as well.

Kasher Chand Rana looked up nervously and pushed his spectacles further up his nose. Both his wife and daughter had high tempers and shrill voices, and there were times when he expressed the opinion that a dumb woman would be a priceless pearl. Mercifully, both women had also a full allowance of Punjabi charm and just enough self-control
not to shriek at him in public. He was, therefore, under the illusion that nobody knew that he was third in command in his house. Unfortunately, his servants kept his friends' servants well informed and he was famous as a thoroughly henpecked husband.

He clasped his small, clawlike hands before him and lifted up a face on which trepidation was clearly written.

‘Well, daughter?'

The story poured out. Kasher Chand Rana was surprised but not angry. In the background Ayah punctuated the recital with horrified exclamations.

‘It is not Dr Singh's fault,' he said. ‘It is Ajit's. We must tell your mother – she will not like it.' He sighed and twiddled his wispy moustache. ‘And your grandmother, I suppose – what will she say?' He sighed again at the horrid prospect before him. ‘How did you find out?'

Reluctantly Bimla told of Nulini's visit.

‘How did she know? It may be only a rumour.'

Bimla's loyalty to Nulini made it impossible for her to say how Nulini probably got her information, so she said: ‘I don't know. You should go and see Dr Singh.'

‘I will inquire,' he said.

‘Go now-please, Father,' demanded Bimla.

‘Yes, yes, child,' said her father resignedly, and he got up from his chair and shuffled about looking for his slippers. Ayah found them and put them on his feet. ‘I will go now – although it is already hot.'

Satisfied, Bimla left him. Ayah brought him water, while he was waiting for his carriage.

‘Ayah, no one must know of this yet.'

‘Sahib,' she said reproachfully, ‘I have served you faithfully for forty years.'

‘I have malaria, Ayah. My hands are shaking. And I shall have to start marriage negotiations all over again. It is trying, very trying. And where did Nulini Singh get this gossip – it may well be gossip, Ayah.'

‘It is truth, I think, Sahib. Nulini Singh is likely to know the truth.'

‘Why?'

Ayah shrank away.

‘I demand to know,' said Chand Rana sharply.

Ayah whispered into his ear.

He looked shocked. ‘Ridiculous,' he said. ‘How dare you say such a thing – you are not to purvey such damaging gossip in my house – I am surprised at you.'

‘I have seen him look at her with love, Sahib,' said Ayah defensively.

‘Absolutely ridiculous,' said Chand Rana. ‘Probably her husband told her.'

The carriage came.

Kasher Chand Rana spent half an hour discussing politics and drinking tea, before he could gather courage enough to ask Ram Singh about his son's marriage, and just as he broached the subject Mrs Singh came into the room followed by Thakkur bearing a special sweetmeat which she desired Kasher Chand Rana to try. The servant retired, but Mrs Singh showed no signs of going away again, so he was forced to speak in front of her and to nibble the confection with which she presented him.

He mentioned that he had heard a rumour, a most extraordinary rumour which he felt was unlikely to be true, but as his own family was involved, would Ram Singh be so good as to confirm or deny it?

Ram Singh could not imagine how Chand Rana had heard about the marriage, but it was the only source of rumour which could possibly have driven him to visit his friend in the middle of the hottest afternoon of the year.

‘My friend – er – this distresses me very much – er – I cherish your friendship very much – I – er …'

‘I understand,' said Chand Rana glumly and absentmindedly took another sweet.

Mrs Singh covered her face with her sari and the study was silent. It was a difficult moment for them all.

At last Ram Singh said: ‘I am sure you will have no difficulty in finding another husband for Bimla. However, if you would care to consider another boy from our family, my brother has a son of the same age as Bimla – a fine young man, who will inherit a share in his father's silk mill. He is a handsome boy, nearly six feet tall and of good
proportions. If you would … if I might suggest …', and he looked at his friend slyly, ‘I would be very pleased to act as mediator.'

Chand Rana, who had been imagining the screaming fury of his wife when he broke the news of Ajit's marriage to her, was immediately interested. It would be something with which to placate her.

‘Six feet tall, did you say?' he asked hopefully, ‘and of what kind of nature?'

Ram Singh knew all about the distaff side of his friend's family, and he said: ‘Of a most determined nature. He was very disappointed when it appeared that Ajit would marry Bimla. He has seen her here – and I think he would be delighted to have the honour of marrying her. My brothers also would find pleasure in an alliance with your respected family.'

The two men grinned at each other, and behind her veil Mrs Singh giggled with relief.

Chand Rana nodded his bald head. ‘Will you arrange a meeting with your respected brother?'

‘Certainly.'

They talked a little longer and then Khan was sent to fetch Chand Rana's carriage. Ram Singh accompanied his friend to the front door and paused on the threshold. A little anxiously, he said: ‘My friend, at this time, the marriage of my son is a source of anxiety to me and we have decided not to make it known for the time being. May I count on your discretion in this matter?'

‘Of course – and I will instruct my family not to mention it until you announce it.'

Kasher Chand Rana told Bimla as gently as he could that Ajit had indeed married someone else. Bimla wept and Mrs Chand Rana's voice reached new heights of shrillness as she held forth on the stupidity of the man that her parents had made her marry.

Kasher Chand Rana waited patiently until Bimla's tears of frustration ceased and his wife's upbraiding had been reduced to a recitation of the foolish things he had done in the past, and then he mentioned casually that he had heard
that a most handsome young man was secretly in love with his pretty daughter.

The pretty daughter pushed her ruffled hair back from her face, and with a thread of excitement in her voice demanded to know his name.

Her father settled himself more comfortably on the mattress on which he had deposited himself, and added dryly that the young man would one day be very rich.

His wife's voice snapped off as sharply as if she had been turned off like a radio, and she became very attentive.

‘The young man is very handsome indeed,' said Kasher Chand Rana.

The women forgot about Ajit and clamoured to know more.

He refused to say who it was, but promised to make further inquiries, and in the meantime they were to keep Ajit's marriage a secret, for the sake of Dr Singh, who was, after all, their very good friend.

‘If a rumour of this marriage comes to me from any corner,' he said threateningly, ‘I shall know who started the gossip – and I shall stop all negotiations regarding Bimla's prospects with the young man of whom I have heard.'

At such a dreadful threat, both Mrs Chand Rana and Bimla quailed and promised faithfully that neither of them would mention the subject, and Bimla went back to her embroidery which lay under the mango tree. There she sat down to dream of an admirer as beautiful as a Rajput prince; and her Ayah marvelled at the unaccustomed peace.